


Alles Muss Versteck Sein

by UnicornAttack



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fingering, Genderbend, probably the weirdest combination of tags ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:01:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnicornAttack/pseuds/UnicornAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Bitches stay overnight in an abandoned village. Wicki makes a discovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alles Muss Versteck Sein

Living out in the forest meant the Bitches didn’t really have the time to make themselves look pretty. Donna gave them regular haircuts so their hair stayed just above their collars. Make-up? As if they were going to worry about make-up, of all things! At home they would have made the effort (Donna was a maybe in that respect; she already had a husband, anyway), but time spent in a forest killing Nazis really wasn’t time to worry about lipstick and mascara. Not that Hugo really cared, of course. He had no reason to. But Wicki...she really was something. He couldn’t deny that. He’d seen the way Utivich looked at her (Utivich was a quiet girl, but her preference for the fairer sex, as Marlene Ulmer delicately put it, was no secret). There was something different about her beauty; a certain darkness that added an edge to it, defined it. Something lurked behind those dark eyes and full lips. Whatever it was, though, Wicki hid it well.

It was a sweltering evening in late July. The Bitches had ambushed a group of maybe ten German soldiers, scalped them all, and tossed some dirt and leaves over the bodies. Other than that, they left nature to do its job. They had now come across an abandoned village none of them knew the name of. Most of the buildings had been ransacked in some way or another, presumably by German soldiers, but a handful of houses remained intact. Stiglitz, Wicki, Utivich, Donowitz and the lieutenant placed themselves in a squat two-bedroom cottage with bright whitewashed stone walls and small leaded windows.  
“Kinda pretty, isn’t it?” Utivich remarked, grinning lopsidedly. It was the first time Stiglitz had seen her express positive emotion beyond her usual watery smiles. Out of all of them, Utivich was probably the least likely candidate for the job they were doing: she was small and skinny and her eyes watered more than they probably should have done, but she was good at what she did, which mattered more than what she looked like.  
Once inside, they sorted out beds. There was one large double bed and two singles; Donna and Utivich took the double bed (“Mind you don't crush the poor girl, Donny”), and Raine herself announced her intention to sleep on the floor beside them. That left Wicki and Stiglitz with the twin beds. Wicki knew Stiglitz wasn’t the type to share a bed. Their room seemed to have belonged to two children at one point; Wicki found a notebook in the chest of drawers that sat between the two wooden beds. Her French wasn’t as good as her English, but she managed to glean some information from it: the notebook appeared to be the diary of a ten-year-old girl called Mathilde Boucher, who lived in the cottage with her parents, Christophe and Marie Boucher, and her younger brother Henri, who was five. Christophe was the village tailor, it seemed. The last entry was dated as the third of August 1940, almost three years prior to the Bitches entering the village, and Mathilde had written of her parents’ plans to take her and Henri south to Spain, away from the Germans. After that, nothing.  
That night, Wicki lay in bed, staring at a crack in the ceiling. Were the Bouchers Jewish? Or were they simply wary of the Germans? There was no mention of the family being Jews in Mathilde’s diary, but things like religion rarely registered in a ten-year-old’s mind. It never had for Wicki. So where were they now? Dead? Locked up? Or maybe they’d made it to Spain after all.  
Wicki doubted it.  
“Stiglitz? Are you awake?” she whispered.  
“What is it?” he grunted. They could both hear Donna snoring like a jet engine next door. How her husband and son put up with it, neither of them knew.  
“I...I found a diary,” Wicki replied. “I found out who used to live here. A family. Mother, father, two children. It belongs to the girl. She was ten when she made the last entry. The father, Christophe, he was a tailor...”  
“Do you have it?”  
Wordlessly, Wicki handed the notebook to Stiglitz.  
“Do you know French?” she asked.  
“I understand it well enough.” He flipped through the book, occasionally pausing to study a passage in more detail. When he got to the end he closed it and handed it back to Wicki.  
“I recall them,” he said, taking her by surprise. “They were Jews.”  
“They were?”  
“And they never made it to Spain.”  
“Well, what happened to them?”  
Stiglitz paused. Should he tell her? Fuck it, why not? He sighed and sat up further in bed, running a hand through his hair.  
“We found them in a cave a few miles south of here,” he said softly. “I don't know how long they’d been there. We found them in October of 1940. They were half-starved. The boy was already dead when we got there. The girl was as good as. She had...oh, pneumonia, something like that. Her parents probably told her to write about going to Spain to draw off any attention from the Germans. The mother wouldn't stop crying.”  
He paused. Wicki was stunned into silence; this was the most she’d ever heard him say in one go. Stiglitz was famously laconic, even by her own standards, and anyone who wasn’t Wicki or the lieutenant was lucky to get more than a few words out of him at a time.  
“The father pleaded with us to shoot him and spare his wife and children. He was delusional. He thought his son was still alive. We had no idea where our captain was, and we didn’t know what to do. Then March, a new Private, panicked. He shot the man. We had to shoot the mother and the girl then. They wanted to burn the bodies, but I insisted that we buried them. It just...seemed more respectful.”  
“Why did you take the time, though?”  
Stiglitz paused again. He appeared thoughtful.  
“Honestly? I never believed a word of what Hitler said. See, I had this crazy idea that Jews were human beings, not vermin. Anyone with half a fucking brain can see that. I may not be the most compassionate human being on the planet, but I know when to be respectful.”  
“What about those officers?”  
That was the wrong thing to say. Stiglitz turned to glare at Wicki, and even now, after she’d known him for a few years, it was still unsettling.  
“You think they deserved respect? Do you?” he snarled. “They were scum, and murderers, and they got what they fucking deserved.”  
“Hugo...”  
“Fuck off.”  
“Hugo.”  
Wicki stepped out of bed. She was wearing a tattered white vest and a pair of shorts that hung loosely on her thighs. She didn’t want to hear any more about the Bouchers, or their fate. She’d learned a lot tonight—perhaps too much. Maybe some rocks were best left unturned.  
Stiglitz sat up and looked at her. Even in the dim glow of the rusting lamp, she was beautiful; the flame, disturbed slightly by the movement, shuddered. The shadows it cast over her body danced, twisting and writhing across her skin, picking out her scars and blemishes. She was the antithesis of the perfect Aryan woman men like Stiglitz were meant to want to fuck. She was a Jew, a fighter. She smoked and swore and shot people. She had muscles where other women had curves—not as many as, say, the She-Bear (if it wasn't for her rather voluminous cleavage, Donna Donowitz could have quite conceivably passed for male)—but they were there, maybe enough to turn some men off. But not Stiglitz. He liked the raw, angry defiance he found in Wicki's stubborn beauty. He stood and grabbed her hips, kissing her roughly. She fisted a hand in his short blonde hair. He slid a hand down her shorts and pressed one thick finger inside of her.  
“Son of a bitch,” she gasped. It was customary for Wicki to swear and curse during sex; it was cathartic for her, the same way crying was cathartic for others. They all had their own ways of coping with tension. Donowitz had her bat, the lieutenant had her knife—Wicki screwed. Sometimes, when they obviously thought everyone was asleep (except Stiglitz rarely slept), Stiglitz would hear one of the Bitches rustling her blankets a little. A few muffled sighs and it was all over. He simply rolled over and tried to ignore it.  
“Fucking bastard," Wicki growled. Her pupils were dilated. "Fucking hate you.”  
Stiglitz angled his hand so the rough, calloused heel was pressing against her where he knew it would have an effect. She went still and gasped, shuddering as she climaxed. He waited a few moments then withdrew his finger, hearing a faint but sharp intake of breath from Wicki. He wiped his finger on her shorts, grinning.  
“Fucker,” she said amiably. She climbed back into bed, and when he heard her breathing even out a few minutes later, he knew she had fallen asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ‘Augen Auf’ by Oomph!. Sorry for the fairly mediocre sex scene.


End file.
